


Cat's Eye

by theauthorish



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Familiars, M/M, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24435391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: The Bookkeeper’s face smoothed out, turned serious and stern as the metal wrapped around Kenma’s wrist. “But this doubt in me cannot stand if we are to proceed,” he said. Again, he waited for Kenma to nod. “A familiar is no small commitment; the nature of my existence now is such that I know most of what I need to bond you and find a partner that will match your inner soul-- but the magic that put me here was imperfect and untried, and there are bits and pieces I cannot be sure of. The minutiae and the idiosyncrasies of who you are and what you require in your partner are things I cannot discern completely, and that has led to much grief, in the past.”
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Cat's Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Forgot this existed, but realized i hadnt posted it, and well... im not active in the haikyuu fandom anymore, but it seemed a waste to leave this unposted!

What do you see, when you look at a black cat? Some see portents of bad luck-- harbingers of misery and misfortune, with eyes too sharp to be natural, claws just as wicked and ready to cut. To those people, black cats are terrors of the world, warnings that there is a witch nearby, that wherever they are, it isn't safe; how could it be, with a curse-worker nearby?

As for myself, all I ever saw, when looking at a black cat, was elegance and grace-- their fur, sleek and smooth as a night of dreamless sleep, or a finely faceted piece of onyx; their eyes that glowed bright against the darkness like jewels lit from the inside, that showed when their fur was nothing more than a hint, the barest silhouette against the equally black sky; their movements, light as a feather, balletic as if made to the tune of some song only they could hear. As of late, I’ve also started to think that black cats, if anything, are  _ good  _ luck.

Which of the two is correct, I cannot say. It is not my place, and such things are subjective anyway. But I  _ can _ tell you the story that made me say the last-- if you would like to hear it, that is. It is a long one, though, so perhaps you should settle in...

/////

There was a witch, once, by the name of Kozume Kenma. He was young, quiet, with piercing eyes and a voice that, for all its lack of volume, made people stop and listen--

This, reader, was not because of some great weight or gravity that his voice could have carried, though I have known many people to speak that way. Rather, it was because the words he spoke were plain, stripped of all pretense or flowering poeticism. Kenma was honest in a way very few were, and because he had an aversion to socializing and what he viewed as its many needless facets, he only spoke when he felt it necessary-- which meant that what little he said often carried importance, ignored at one's own peril.

Ah, but you are wondering where our black cat comes in. Patience, dear heart, I am getting there.

You see, at the time our story begins, Kenma had yet to find himself a familiar. Familiars weren't (and aren't) a necessity, of course, but there are a great many things they could do for their masters, things that Kenma could hardly hope to do on his own, as a mere human. I won't bore you by listing the particulars; suffice it to say that there were plenty of them, not the least of which was an added protection.

Kenma had been putting it off for quite some time, but one May morning, he awoke to the sound of shattering glass. He came out into his workroom to find his window broken, and his store of herbs scattered across the floor. As he stepped closer, he found a match, burned out and dropped atop the wreckage as if an afterthought-- the perpetrator hadn't even bothered to remain to ensure things burned as he’d meant them to.  _ How terribly lazy _ , Kenma thought, though he himself wasn't one to talk.

It wasn't one of the townsfolk, this much he knew. It was too brash and careless, and the other villagers were always careful to stay in his good graces (and he in theirs), for it was he who gave them remedies when they needed it, and it was they who kept him safe, gave him peace to live, and helped provide him materials and ingredients.

If he recalled correctly, some travellers had come to stay, the past few nights, and had mentioned they’d be leaving today. Those were the likely culprits.

Revenge, while certainly within his grasp, was too much work, and besides, Kenma hadn't been around them long enough to know if these folk were the type that would only try and get him back worse-- and should they return, Kenma (small and relatively weak as he was) would most definitely lose when it came to the physical side of things.

I did mention he was lazy, didn't I?

Well, anyhow, he swept up the mess and took a short trip into town to buy a new set of jars and to make arrangements for his window to be repaired. 

“Kenma-kun,” said the old lady who ran the shop, as she tucked each jar carefully into a crate, “Why don't you get one of those animal companions? Those ones that protect you?”

“Familiars, you mean,” Kenma corrected quietly, not surprised in the least that she knew about them; she had journeyed great distances in her youth, selling her wares and seeing what she could, and she was open-minded enough to eagerly welcome new knowledge when it was offered. Or so Kenma had gathered. “But yes, I think I might just do that.”

She smiled. “I'm glad to hear it, Kenma-kun. Will you be able to find one soon?”

Kenma offered her a little quirk of his lips, taking the crate from her hands with a soft grunt. “That depends, but hopefully yes. Have a good day, Yoshikawa-san.” He dipped his head, too worried a full bow would cause him to drop his fragile purchase, and left.

A familiar, huh? It was something he’d been considering for a while, but not a plan he’d actually set into motion. Perhaps Yoshikawa-san was right, he thought, as he pushed the door of his cottage open; maybe it was time for him to get one after all.

/////

For Kenma, getting a familiar had seemed for so long to be too much hassle for something he didn't really need. Since his family wasn't a particularly old line of witches, there were no connections, no familiar clans pledged to their service from whom he could choose.

Instead, he had to pay the Bookkeeper a visit.

The Bookkeeper was, as far as anyone could guess, either the first witch, or the first familiar. His partner was never seen, though it was said that she, too, was alive, all these ages later. He kept track of the familiars who were unbonded and where to find them, and could just as quickly summon them as you and I could draw breath into our lungs.

He was said to be found where he was needed most-- Kenma took this to mean he either had a bad sense of direction, was cryptic on purpose, or was just plain difficult to track down and reveled in it.

He was maybe a little upset he didn't have anything more concrete on the Bookkeeper. He liked to be prepared for any eventuality, and know every detail he could possibly scrape together before diving into a situation-- but in his library, there was nothing other than what he already knew, and he didn't have time to contact what few other witches he had kept up relations with.

His best chance would be the market, of course. He was dreading it, but as long as he took precautions and didn't deviate from his initial intentions, he should be safe.

The market in question was one only known as the Penumbra Bazaar. Have you heard of it, dear reader? It was a market for the ‘other’ folk-- the fae and the demon, the spellcasters and the illusionists… this was where they hawked their wares and sold such ethereal things as bottled desires and wisps of memories. It was a beautiful, wondrous place… one that was bursting to the seams with danger. It was captivating to be certain, but Kenma had avoided it out of his interest for self-preservation; sure, he was a mage and not as helpless as other humans, but compared to the rest of the magical realm at large? He was at the bottom of the food chain. He wouldn't go at all, could he help it, but he had no other idea for where to find the Bookkeeper...

With a sigh, Kenma set about readying the supplies he would need. He moved to his workstation first-- he had a few pieces here that would… aha. He made a soft sound of satisfaction as he plucked up the delicate silver chain. It was unadorned, but it didn't take long for Kenma to string it with beads of labradorite and fluorite, and then secure it around his neck; it was already enchanted, worked on its forging with spells for health and protection by a smith Kenma knew to be reliable, but one could never be certain. He found a pair of earrings he’d crafted from a fairy cross stone, and he took these and donned them too. He didn't find anything else useful, and another scan of his stores revealed he was running low on wire and the like… he’d have to pay Bokuto another visit soon-- the man was loud and sometimes too draining, but he was truly skilled, and the only one Kenma trusted to properly work magic into the metals he needed.

He found some caraway seeds (to protect against thieves-- especially those that would steal something intangible from him) and put them in a small pouch, which he tied at his waist. He tied up his hair with a short length of cord and stuck a sprig each of sage and mugwort into it, all but for a single lock, which he braided with wooden beads he’d carved with various wards and sigils, weaving another chain-- this one of pure gold-- into the strands. Finally, he slid a bangle of cold iron onto his wrist.

You might be tempted to think he was overdoing it. Did he really need these many things, all geared towards protection? But you see, he didn't know what creatures would be present at the market; he’d heard they came from all over the world, that they could do all sorts of things. He didn't know what would work against them. So he needed as many deterrents as possible-- lest he never leave, or else lose his soul or something equally as vital. It was too easy to be trapped when you couldn't see the web spun around you, and Kenma didn't want to take any chances.

When he figured he was safe enough, Kenma locked up his home and cast a quick ward before heading off. The forest wasn't too far, but Kenma would have to find the entrance, and he didn't like hurrying, or want to be there too late. The earlier he arrived, the less likely it would be crowded, and the better his chances of survival.

/////

The bazaar was just as much a sight as Kenma had pictured and more. Colorful bolts of fabric draped between the myriad booths, as did strings of lanterns that cast a steady golden glow, too constant and unwavering to be flickery firelight-- Kenma was curious about what sort of magic could produce such an illumination, but not enough to dare ask. Glowing salves and shimmering potions sat next to stones that seemed to suck in the light, and those sat next to bottles of carved beads and wispy clouds of smoke in colors smoke ought not to be; there was more, so much more, and Kenma felt overwhelmed enough to want to turn tail and head home. Movement in the corner of his eye made him start, and he almost followed through--

But no, it was just a cat. It blinked at him, irises gold and stark against its midnight fur like a harvest moon in the evening sky. 

Kenma sighed. He was too keyed up, that was all. He just needed to relax, to focus. Not let his guard down-- never-- but he could certainly stand to be less jumpy.

Around him, there were creatures of every sort, creatures that you and I have only heard of in bedtime tales and whispered stories around a campfire-- and even then, there were some far beyond our imaginations. Humanoid beings (that Kenma might have mistaken for costumed mortals had he not known better) mingled among more bestial and animalistic ones. There were precious few customers; most of the present beings were here to set up shop, which was just what Kenma had hoped for, at least. He scanned the market, trying to decide which creature would be safest to approach, when--

“Do you have business with me?” he asked softly, of the man (though Kenma doubted he was only that) nearing him from behind. He turned to face him-- he was shorter than Kenma by a few inches, clad in a simple yukata, his light brown hair cropped short. His hazel eyes were ancient and young all at once, focused on Kenma in something like scrutiny, or perhaps plain observance.

“You are human,” he said. A statement, not a question; better for Kenma, he knew, because he need not refute or confirm it. “You came for the Bookkeeper, did you not?”

Kenma blinked slowly. He didn't know if that was safe to answer, nor how this man seemed to know, but the decision was made for him as the other man said, “Follow me mortal, and speak not to anyone. Avert your eyes, ignore that which your ears may catch, and touch nothing that you can avoid.” He began to walk towards the bustle of the main market. He seemed to be heading towards a small tent set up in the far corner that Kenma had somehow failed to notice-- or perhaps he had been forced not to notice; he sensed magic there, faintly. Powerful, old magic. Possibly the illusionary sort. 

“If you do not wish to come,” called the man, as Kenma showed no sign of moving with him, “You need not. But you should go home and not come back. The Bookkeeper will not return here for another year yet, after this, and a place such as here, with its rules upon rules, and the players of this game older than even your ancestors… it is not a place for mortal folk.”

Kenma took a deep breath and went.

/////

The tent wasn't particularly impressive, even up close. It was as ordinary as these things went, well-worn fabric the color of wine held aloft by supports like a canopy, with jinmaku-esque tapestries tied to those same supports to enclose all four sides. There was no marking on the fabric, no guarantee or assurance that this, indeed, was the Bookkeeper. Without a word, the man Kenma had followed lifted the bottom of one panel of cloth (it seemed to have been left untied) and disappeared inside.

Kenma caught a flash of what might have been a fox’s tail, and then the fabric fluttered down again, hiding him from sight.

Was it safe to proceed? He didn't know what lay beyond, whether he’d emerge safe. The only one who could have told him was already inside, and anyway, how much could Kenma trust him?

Did he have any other option, though? If the man was to be believed, there would be no other chance to see the Bookkeeper for a year yet if he lost this chance. Not to mention, he had no other leads. Plus, Kenma knew his spellwork, knew his capabilities and the strength of the materials he’d chosen for himself. If nothing else, it would at least provide a little protection, maybe time enough to make an escape should he need it.

As long as they didn't get his name...

He didn't know how long he stood there, mulling over possibilities and pros and cons. It might have been only seconds. Maybe minutes. But finally, a fox emerged from the tent (so he had been right; it had been a fox), not just one, but three tails swishing in the air behind it. “Come on then, human,” it said, with no malice. Kenma realized the voice was the same one that had brought him here in the first place.

“A kitsune,” Kenma whispered, and though the fox’s ears twitched, and it-- he-- seemed to stand a little straighter, he did not acknowledge this slip of the tongue.

“He is waiting for you,” said the kitsune, softly. “You need not be afraid. He will not ask anything of you that you cannot give, and anything he needs to know, he knows already, or will learn in short time.”

Kenma felt, strangely, no apprehension. His rational mind did, surely, but his heartbeat was steady and regular, his hands relaxed at his sides. His instincts could be trusted, he knew, and if this fox had hoped to trick him, he would have been better served keeping his old shape-- and surely one as old as this one seemed to be would have known that.

The likelihood of this being safe… seemed high.

The kitsune waited this time, and when Kenma held the fabric aside so he could duck underneath it, it sat by him until he had let it fall again behind him. The tent was fairly bare, with tatami mats laid out to cover the dirt. Directly before Kenma, there stood a few bottles of sake (in varying states of fullness) next to two plush-looking cushions separated by a chabudai between them. There was a small sake cup, half-filled and rippling as if just recently set down.

A black cat was curled up beside the table, licking its paw with satisfaction. It stretched and stood. There was no one else present. 

A cloth panel to Kenma’s right lifted, and an old man-- the Bookkeeper, probably-- entered, just as the cat lifted its paw and held it out towards the cup. “Oi!” he exclaimed, frowning at it. “Kuroo Tetsurou, did you touch my sake?”

The cat blinked slow and almost smug at him as it licked its paw yet again, almost tauntingly. Kenma was inclined to believe he was imagining it-- after all, animals couldn't be  _ smug _ . But no, anything was possible here, and he was here to procure a familiar, so an animal with human traits was hardly unexpected.

The old man clicked his tongue and strode over to the chabudai, picked up the cup, and splashed the rest at the cat, who barely managed to leap out of the way with a hiss. Only then did he turn to Kenma where he stood, the fox a quiet sentry by his feet. “Ah, Kozume-kun,” he said, and Kenma started at his name, but then, he supposed the kitsune had told him the Bookkeeper knew who he was to some degree. “Good to know you arrived safely. Yaku, you're welcome to go, if you’d like. Thank you for the favor.”

“I owe you still, Nekomata-san,” said the fox, tails waving as if to bat away the concern. “It was no trouble, and you may call on me any time. As you say, though, I will take my leave now. Good evening.” Yaku bowed low, and then he turned and exited the tent, leaving Kenma behind.

The Bookkeeper gestured for Kenma to sit, and he did, albeit hesitantly. 

“I see you are still wary of me, Kozume-kun, even though you sought me out of your own accord.” The Bookkeeper’s smile and tone were warm, honeyed, unbothered in the least as he poured himself more sake. Kenma couldn't help but note the well-wrinkled corners of his eyes, the crow’s feet that marked them from frequent smiles much like this-- that simply could not be faked.

He did not bother to dispute the elder’s observation, which was so obviously true.

Nekomata, as the kitsune had called him, went on, “That is a good mindset to have, in a world such as this-- especially in a part of it so drenched in odd spellwork, with creatures you have never yet encountered.” He paused, seemingly waiting, and Kenma eventually acknowledged his words with a slow nod.

Then, the Bookkeeper’s face smoothed out, turned serious and stern as the metal wrapped around Kenma’s wrist. “But this doubt in me cannot stand if we are to proceed,” he said. Again, he waited for Kenma to nod. “A familiar is no small commitment; the nature of my existence now is such that I know most of what I need to bond you and find a partner that will match your inner soul-- but the magic that put me here was imperfect and untried, and there are bits and pieces I cannot be sure of. The minutiae and the idiosyncrasies of who you are and what you require in your partner are things I cannot discern completely, and that has led to much grief, in the past.” 

Kenma held his gaze, felt the immensity of just what he was planning to do all at once, like an anvil dropped over him. A familiar, once bonded, was a lifelong tie. It could not be severed or replaced, could not be undone once made-- not without making it impossible to ever bond to another. It was a pact more binding, more serious than even marriage.

Still, as heavy as it seemed, Kenma had been putting this off long enough. His village saw many travellers, and this was not the first time that he had been a victim to such petty crimes or taunts, though it had been the first in a long while. He would need a guardian, and a familiar could be that for him and more. Alone as he was, with no family or particularly close friends to lean on, he knew he was better off proceeding.

“I will be honest with you, young one, so you will have cause to trust me and do the same,” Nekomata said, after giving the witch a few moments of peace to reconsider and he showed no signs of hesitancy, nor of leaving. “Ask me your questions, and I will answer them as best as I can and spare no details. In return, when I am finished, you will do the same.” He paused and took a sip of his drink, produced a second cup and quietly offered it to Kenma, who shook his head. 

He did not particularly like drinking. 

“This is not something I can be moved to reevaluate. If you lie to me, if you withhold anything from me, I will not find you a familiar, nor will I help bind you to any you might meet in the future and convince to bond with you. If you somehow bind them to yourself without my help, I will find out, and I can and  _ will _ revoke it. These are the terms, Kozume Kenma. Do you accept?”

Kenma’s response was soft but steady. “I do.”

/////

Now, reader, here is what Kozume Kenma learned. 

The Bookkeeper was not the first witch, but he was the first one to have formally bonded to a familiar. By that time that the contract was made, witches were growing in number, and the general populace felt threatened by it; they had met many magical creatures, of course, but they had always been carefully separate-- respectful, but never close.

So it went that in those days, it was much more common for a witch to be attacked, and they soon trained animal companions to warn them. As their power and knowledge grew, they began sharing it with their companions-- lengthening their lifespans, increasing their intelligence, heightening their senses, and even giving them skills and strengths to better protect and alert their masters. From there, nature took over (as it is wont to do), adapting their bodies and changing them as each new generation came to be. 

Contrary to what Kenma had expected, Nekomata had not been chosen to serve as Bookkeeper from the start. There had been many witches then, yes, but not so many that they didn't all know each other, in their little corner of the world. It wasn't necessary. Really, it was when he was quite old, and their children had grown and were beginning to settle down for families of their own that they began to realize that it would soon be necessary for someone to track these things, to connect them. Already, familiar bloodlines were being born, as convenience and magic and nature all worked together.

From there, Nekomata went on to explain what he could and could not do: the spell they had performed was long and complicated, a masterpiece of such magnitude that it took the 7 strongest mages of their time working in unison to pull it off. It allowed him to know the whereabouts of all unbonded witches and familiars, and when a witch was in want of one, to feel the summons in his soul like a thread being pulled. Once there, he could find a nearby unbound familiar, and perform the ritual that would connect the mage to his new companion.

In time, familiars developed to be what they were now: shapeshifters (most of them; not all-- some remained only capable of animal shape) who could live for centuries until they found a master to serve, who held a naturally high resistance to most types of spells and a keen mental connection to whatever mage they bonded with. 

“I watched those changes happen, gradual and barely there-- until one day they were something so entirely different from my partner, my familiar, and somehow I hadn't realized it,” Nekomata mused to Kenma. Kenma could hardly imagine it-- living so long as to watch a species evolve right before your eyes. 

Can you picture such a thing, darling? Maybe it will help to paint you a different, simpler image. Imagine… imagine an hourglass, with all the sand in the very top. Imagine that, instead of flowing normally, it flows slowly, slow enough that you can watch each individual grain drift down to the bottom and settle, slow enough that you could count each and every new fleck as it fell and joined its brethren.

This was not something the original spell had accounted for, although, Nekomata felt that maybe it should have been an obvious conclusion. But it's so easy, sometimes, to look at how far off the end result is and think:  _ ah, that can be a problem for another day;  _ it's so easy to think it over and over again, and then suddenly, the time to solve it arrives-- and you are unprepared.

And so, Nekomata was faced with a problem-- too often, the witches he bound did not get along with their familiars. Too often personalities and ambitions clashed, and the bonds, though they could be revoked, could not be reinstated. There would be no future familiars, for those whose bond had been stricken, and it was unsafe still, in those times, for a witch to be alone.

Nekomata found himself help, from creatures whose magic ran deep and ancient in their blood, whose wisdom spanned more lifetimes than you could count on all your fingers and toes. 

(“It must have cost you,” Kenma said, quietly.

Nekomata’s expression turned grave, all trace of placidity gone from his features. “It did; greatly. But I-- and all our community-- was in need. What could I do then but sacrifice?”

Kenma nodded. He understood, though he doubted if he himself could have been-- could ever be-- so selfless as that.)

Together, Nekomata and those eldritch beings wove a new spell, one that picked up the loose ends of the last and tucked them in tight-- it was flawed, of course, as all yet untried things tend to be, but it was enough. Now, Nekomata could discern the vague personalities of each witch who summoned him, knowingly or not. Now, he knew the broad strokes for what they wanted and needed in equal measure. And the familiars? Well, he had plenty of free time; he had all the time in the world. He could stand to get to know them in person, one by one.

/////

“And that is all there is to  _ my _ story,” Nekomata finished, steepling his fingers on the table before him. “And now it is  _ your _ turn, young Kozume. What is it that you want of your familiar?”

The obvious answer was safety. That had always been the point of familiars, after all, and Nekomata had said as much.

But that was not what Nekomata was asking for. Kenma knew this.

It took Kenma a second to find his voice. Then he said, “I am not good… with people.” The black cat, though it didn't stand or open its eyes from where it lay curled in a corner of the tent, as if asleep, twitched its ears. Was it listening? “I don't like them or their attention. I avoid it when I can. And yet… despite that… I care about what they think.”

Nekomata nodded encouragingly, and Kenma took another deep breath. He had never admitted this to anyone before-- after all, who would he have told it to? He didn't trust many people to begin with; it was unlikely that he would have found someone he relied on so much as to confide something so personal to. “I care too much, really,” he went on. “I find myself hyper-aware of them, anxious and constantly on edge around new faces, cataloguing every little tic and word, so that I might know how to predict them. I'm not so jumpy as I used to be, when I was younger… but I am always wary. It's exhausting.”

Kenma’s skin prickled with the weight of a stare-- one that could only belong to the cat. It blinked slowly at him.  _ Go on _ , it seemed to say.  _ I'm listening to you.  _ It remained curled up though, as if it meant to return to sleep at any instant it lost interest.

Somehow, Kenma found he did not mind in the slightest.

As for the Bookkeeper, the old man looked intent, absorbing all that came from Kenma’s mouth. He didn't look much surprised by what he was discovering, which Kenma supposed was par for the course considering all that he’d learned of Nekomata’s capabilities.

“It would help,” Kenma said lowly, “if I had a familiar who could help analyze the people around me. Alert me to things I might miss-- though the odds of me missing something are low, nowadays, it would help soothe my nerves somewhat.”

Nekomata gave another nod. “Is that all, Kozume-kun?” he prompted, not unkindly.

“No.”

“Then what else is there?” Nekomata paused, frowning down at his empty cup. “Kozume-kun, could you do me the favor of pouring me some more sake?”

Kenma obliged him, taking the bottle and uncorking it, carefully tilting it to fill the shallow cup. “There are many other things, Bookkeeper. There are places I cannot go, places and realms too perilous for mortals like me.”

If anyone knew this, reader, it was Nekomata, who had lived so long, done so much, who still remembered with startling clarity what it was to be one of us-- human. He remembered the feeling as if he had been one only yesterday. This, he did not bother to tell Kenma, however, though I tell it to you to help you understand this story a little better. 

Instead, the Bookkeeper only said, “So you would have a familiar to go in your stead, correct?”

“Yes.” Kenma capped the sake bottle (now empty, though Kenma could have sworn it had been nearly full only moments ago-- and though he had certainly seen the Bookkeeper finish and fill his cup before now, it seemed physically implausible that there was already none left…) 

He set it aside as Nekomata took a sip from the cup Kenma had poured. “I should like to satisfy my curiosity, procure ingredients… understand what dwells in these places to make them so foreboding, and how I might defend myself.”

“Hm… You seek a guardian, then, young one.” It was not a question, but a statement. A matter of fact. 

“I do.”

Nekomata finished what was left of his drink in one swallow. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers. “Kuroo, you’ve been lounging about long enough. Come and introduce yourself proper.”

The black cat yawned first, slow and mocking, drawing an irritated (but fond, Kenma noted) click of the tongue from Nekomata. That done, though, it pushed itself to its feet and shifted into human shape.

/////

Now, sweet, before I continue with the story, you should know what Kuroo Tetsurou looked like, in human form. 

He was tall, just a little more than six feet, with messy hair the color of fine calligrapher’s ink. It fell over his face enough to almost entirely cover his right eye-- and everywhere else, it stuck up in odd directions as if he’d never so much as glanced at a comb (Kenma wondered, wryly, if maybe the reason he hadn't bothered to look at one was because of the vision impairment from his hair). His eyes were narrow, sly and shrewd, a soft hazel brown that glinted in the firelight almost like they might try to match Kenma’s in color instead, and set in a handsome face with a jawline Kenma almost envied (almost).

Kuroo wasn't bulky by any means, but as he drew himself up to his full height after shifting, Kenma didn't doubt his strength. He was lean, certainly, but wrapped in svelte muscle from head to toe. His movements were languid and graceful, his gaze serious and heavy, weighing on Kenma like lead chained to his neck-- 

As a cat, Kuroo had been easily dismissed or ignored. Like this? Kenma couldn't help but be…  _ intimidated _ . Kenma would have to pay very, very close attention to him, make sure he knew what Kuroo was like, what his likely weaknesses were--

And then Kuroo spoke, voice low and rich, like an incense burning in offering to spirits Kenma couldn't begin to name-- deities who may have been old enough to have many names, or maybe none at all. “Good evening,” he said, lips stretched in what might have been a pleasant smile, but for the fact that it came across as vaguely threatening. He dipped his head in a shallow bow, which Kenma only managed to mimic by reflex.

Kenma stayed otherwise unmoving only by sheer force of will. His immediate instincts urged him to shrink back, to back away lest he get scratched, but that was stupid. There was no reason, he told himself, for Kuroo to hurt him now, anymore than there had been when Kuroo had been in cat form. This was just a different shape-- if cat Kuroo hadn't seemed ready to lash out at Kenma, then why should human Kuroo?

Nekomata huffed, looking like he was holding back a smile. “Finally deigning to grace us with your presence, eh, Tetsurou-kun?”

The familiar laughed, soft and rumbling. It reminded Kenma faintly of a landslide, all fertile earth and natural chaos. “I  _ was _ here the whole time, Nekomata-san,” he retorted, lightly.

The Bookkeeper rolled his eyes. “Oh, certainly, you were. Pilfered my sake and slept in the corner of the tent while I did all the work, eh?” 

Kuroo’s grin grew a little wider as he plopped down on the floor between Kenma and Nekomata. Somehow, the action was both elegant and sloppy-- a paradox in itself, honestly. “You need to let it go, Nekomata-san. It's nothing but some old rice juice. A trifle to make or buy, especially for one like you, who has an abundance of time.”

That was correct, if one looked at it from a certain light, Kenma supposed.

It was also…

Terribly stupid.

He sighed, every ounce of mistrust seeping from his body as he relaxed-- for all that he  _ looked  _ scary, he was really just…  _ not _ .

Kenma supposed he ought to withhold judgment for a bit. He’d known him for all but two minutes, if that, but….

He got the impression that this was Kuroo’s honest self, even if it wasn't all there was to him.

Yet another indication that Kuroo was hardly as terrible as he first came across was the way he met Nekomata’s gaze, and-- in response to the elder attempting to smother his amusement-- waggled his eyebrows.

“Enough already,” chastised the Bookkeeper, flicking Kuroo on the forehead. The familiar recoiled with a wince, and a muttered complaint about assault. Nekomata paid him no mind, and so, neither did Kenma.

“Please tell me this is not who you mean to be my familiar,” Kenma deadpanned, turning to face the Bookkeeper. Already, he knew this Kuroo would be draining to be around-- jokesters always were. They were too energetic, too noisy; Kenma didn't want it, especially from someone whose idea of humor was so terrible.

Nekomata only chuckled. “The fact that you already feel comfortable enough to make jibes at him only further solidifies my decision, Kozume-kun. Kuroo is a good man, as foolish as he may sometimes be,” he said. “He has many of the qualities you are looking for, and he's surprisingly talented when it comes to respecting boundaries most of the time-- and is quick to apologize when he crosses them by mistake.”

Kuroo grumbled, running a hand through his messy hair to no effect. “What do you mean, ‘surprisingly’?” he complained, under his breath. Kenma fought back a snicker, unwilling to encourage him, but apparently even the slight rush of air he blew through his nose was enough to tip Kuroo off. The familiar glanced at him in startlement, eyes wide and expression unguarded for a brief moment. Then he grinned, rakish for just an instant before it softened. “He is right, of course. I won't push you to engage with me in conversation, if you would not have it. I do not mind silence, and I can fill it well enough on my own.”

Kenma blinked slowly at him, filing away the information for later. He had to admit, Kuroo had a calming aura about him, at least for now. (He had a feeling the familiar could easily produce the opposite sort of air-- the kind that got under your skin like nails scraped against a slate; it was written in the ease with which he wore his smirk, the brazenness with which he looked Nekomata in the eye as he licked the sake from his fur.)

Nekomata pushed himself to his feet and signalled for the other two to do the same as he went on, “Kuroo is cunning and observant, light on his feet in both forms, and very capable with defensive magic in particular. He has been a guide and a mentor to many, a thorn in the side of unsavory others, and for all his shenanigans, has a wit and intelligence sharp enough for a samurai to wield in battle as a blade. I can think of no better fit for your needs, Kozume Kenma.”

If all that Nekomata claimed was true (and it probably was-- what reason had he to lie?), then Kenma reluctantly agreed. That was, all in all, everything that he was looking for in a familiar. 

Nekomata led the way out of the tent, down a path of stepping stones lit with flickering lanterns made of colored glass in odd shapes and sizes, until they reached a small copse of trees at the very edge of the market. Kenma could sense the boundary here, could feel the barrier thrumming almost palpably from where it separated this pocket of space from the more mundane one Kenma was more familiar with.

Within the grove, there was a magic circle carved into the dirt, sigils and spells that Kenma recognized-- signs for binding, for melding, for connecting and uniting-- woven together in something so intricate that Kenma couldn't locate the start of it all, nor could he find the end.

“Stand in the center, Kozume Kenma,” commanded Nekomata, in a voice that rang deep with power. Kenma obeyed. “Say your name, clear and proud. Declare it to all us present, visible and invisible.”

Kenma felt his nerves bubble up in his throat once more, like his body meant to physically retch it up, and he swallowed it down, hard. There was no one here but Kuroo and Nekomata, and he wasn't making any speeches, wasn't expected to be a grand orator. It was just his name they were asking for, and they already knew it. There was no damage to be done; not by them. “My name,” he said, somehow steady and firm. “is Kozume Kenma.”

There was a sensation of the ground trembling beneath his feet, as if in anticipation-- but a glance revealed everything else still, not even the rustle of the leaves from the wind in them. Kenma had barely even a second to question if maybe  _ he  _ was the one shaking, before with a nod at Kuroo, Nekomata began the spell.

/////

Kenma’s hand burned. The back of it was marked in faint gray lines, raised slightly against his skin like scar tissue-- a tangible representation of his contract with Kuroo. Nekomata had warned that it would sting and itch at intervals, as Kenma’s energy attempted (and failed) to root out the unfamiliar magic.

It was bothersome, but it was a necessary evil, Kenma supposed.

Kuroo had shifted into his cat form, and was currently curled up at the foot of Kenma’s bedroll, sound asleep. 

His tail was tickling Kenma’s ankles.

Kenma sighed and pushed himself to his feet. It was bright outside, the morning sun reaching out with steadily bolder fingers to swathe the sky in color like flame. With a soft grumble, the witch dug up an old kimono (ruined from a spell gone wrong, the bottom half was marred by ash and soot stains he couldn't scrub out) and hung it up across the window, blocking out what sunlight he could.

They’d gotten home only hours ago, and all Kenma wanted to do was sleep, but his mind refused to go silent. Instead his each and every thought clamored for attention-- was Kuroo really everything he claimed to be? What issues would they face down the road as they got to know each other? Could Kenma truly learn to confide in Kuroo? His life was basically Kuroo’s now, too. Why had he ever--

_ Mrow _ .

Kenma blinked and turned to face Kuroo. The cat was staring at him, almost accusing.  _ Why are you all the way over there? Come back _ , he seemed to say, with a flick of his tail, a slow blink of his honeyed eyes.

Kenma waved him off, but Kuroo didn't do anything but keep staring, waiting. The witch sighed, but he supposed his stressing was pointless now-- there was nothing to do but see what the future brought, and address the problems as they came. 

There was nothing to do but learn.

Under Kuroo’s watchful eyes, Kenma returned to bed, curling loosely on his side and letting his eyes flutter shut.

/////

“You can't keep doing that,” Kenma said, as Kuroo yet again arrived far too late to be of any use. The client had just left; it was, thankfully, one of the townsfolk rather than a passing traveler, but still. Kenma could not count that he would always be that lucky.

Kuroo shifted into human form, blinking cluelessly at him. “Doing what?” Kuroo began to patter about, readying the bedroll without being asked and sparking a flame in the firepit to keep them warm in the night.

For someone so considerate, it was odd that he kept vanishing like that, like he genuinely didn't see the issue with the inconsistency of his presence, however minor it might have been. As if he didn't think something as small as even an alert beforehand would help settle Kenma’s nerves.

“Leaving. I’m not a child, Kuroo,” Kenma said, anticipating an argument or barb of some sort, “But I did specifically get a familiar to soothe my anxieties around other people, should they arrive. If you are not here, the point is moot-- especially if you don't even warn me you’ll be gone.” He began to keep away the ingredients he’d used. “At least if you tell me you won't be here, I won't relax my guard early, only to realize I shouldn't have done so.”

Kuroo finished up with what he was doing and began to disrobe, black hakama and kimono falling to the floor with soft thumps as he reached for a nearby bucket and a clean cloth. Kenma kept his gaze averted. “Ah. You're right, of course,” Kuroo answered softly, a moment later. “I assumed you had no problems with it when you withheld comment. I should have known it is not easy for you to speak your mind, especially when you have known me but a week.” He didn't seem bitter or upset, but Kenma remained braced for the inevitable complaint.

Kuroo, he reminded himself, was used to freedom. Familiar or not, for many years before this, Kuroo had been wild, untamed, capable of going wherever he liked, whenever he liked. There had been no limits imposed on him, no master he had to serve. It was only now that he was to be at Kenma’s beck and call. 

It had to sting, surely. Kenma understood that.

Still, at least some advance notice would be appreciated.

Kuroo seemed to understand that too, because no retort came-- just the sound of water dripping back into the bucket, as Kuroo wrung the cloth so it wasn't so soaked, just the soft whisper of the rough fabric against Kuroo’s skin as he wiped himself clean.

Kenma did not bother to fill the silence. He had said what he needed, and that was enough. Instead, he finished tidying up his workspace, taking mental notes for what of his supplies needed more stocking.

“You’re running low on sage,” Kuroo noted, coming up behind him with nary a noise to signal his approach. Kenma startled a bit, but neither of them commented on it.

“The townsfolk often ask for protection,” he explained. “Sage is the easiest thing to procure to that effect, so as long as they don't request anything specific, that is what I give them.” Kenma shrugged. “Or at the very least, it is the main component in what I give them.”

Kuroo made a small, considering hum. “That makes sense, I suppose.” He paused, seemingly mulling something over. Kenma could feel the warmth of him against his back, and for some reason, found no need to pull away, to create distance. Was it the bond at work? Or Kuroo’s natural aura? “Would you like me to go get you some more, tomorrow? I could get you some other herbs as well,” offered the familiar, calling Kenma back to the present.

Kenma shrugged again. “I see no harm in that, if you must be gone.” He turned, finally, to face Kuroo, waiting for him to step aside so Kenma could go and lie down to sleep.

The familiar’s expression softened at that, contrite and genuine. “I will let you know before I go, and I will wait until you have properly closed up shop before I do. This I swear,” he said earnestly.

The witch blinked. “It is not so great a deal as that,” he murmured, ducking his head, abruptly shy for reasons he could not fathom. “You need not swear. It was a minor stressor, and that is all. If you understand my perspective and mean to adjust, that is good enough.”

“And that I do, but a promise helps to prove it, don't you agree, Kozume-kun?”

“Kenma. Call me… Kenma. I am not particularly fond of formalities. I keep meaning to bring it up, but…” But the truth was, Kuroo rarely addressed him by name, and Kenma felt that bringing it up out of the blue would be far too awkward for him to stand. Like this was better, yes. Much better. “The particulars don't matter, I suppose.”

“Kenma then,” Kuroo corrected, with a small smile. “You should call me Tetsurou, in that case.”

Kenma shook his head. “Whatever I call you, it would need to be something that would fit both forms. ‘Tetsurou’ is not traditionally the name of a pet-- should I call you that by mistake around others, they would be quick to notice. Moreso if they are the superstitious sort that would have me condemned.”

Kuroo apparently realized (finally) that he was obstructing Kenma’s path, because he stepped aside and allowed the witch to pass. Kenma stoked the fire with a snap of his fingers, feeding it a little of his magic so it might burn a little brighter. He pondered the issue for a moment, staring at the flames as they flickered and glowed, before mumbling, “Kuro.”

That would do, wouldn't it? Simple, unassuming, suited to Kuroo’s appearances… it wouldn't provoke questions, wouldn't imply that Kuroo was anything more than a simple beast.

Kenma spared the familiar a glance, and found him smirking dryly. “Kuro,” he echoed. “As in the color. A little uncreative, don't you think?”

The witch rolled his eyes. “Exactly the point, Kuro,” he said, testing it out. It rolled off his tongue easily enough, if a little awkwardly. It felt sort of like an endearment, which he supposed it was, sort of, although born out of necessity more than true fondness. “It's easy, mundane. No one will look too into it; they’ll just assume I was too lazy to grant you a better name, and it's similar enough to your actual name that you shouldn't have a hard time adjusting to it.”

Kuroo shrugged then. “Fair enough.” 

/////

“Why are you up?”

Kenma didn't reply, rubbing instead at his hazy eyes. He just needed… he just needed to figure out this cast, and then he could attempt it within the week-- gain some new ingredients perhaps, or more knowledge at the very least.

Kuroo sighed, sitting up and scooting beside Kenma so he could splay a hand over the page of the book, blocking out the symbols and making it impossible for Kenma to parse anything out. The witch swatted at the familiar, to no avail.

“It’s nearly dawn. Have you been up all night?”

Kenma only made another frustrated sound from the back of his throat. He would  _ shove  _ Kuroo’s hand, but he was afraid doing so would rip the already fragile pages of the tome. And shoving Kuroo himself was bound for failure. Kenma was hardly very powerful. “No,” he admitted finally, pushing himself to his feet and heading over to the water bucket. He splashed a handful of the cool water over his face, hoping that would help to wake him up. “I woke up early.”

His eyelids were still drooping shut.

Kuroo quirked up a brow, lifting his hand only to close the book entirely. He hadn't even marked the page, which Kenma felt justified the small whine of irritation. “How early? You went to bed late last night. How long did you sleep?”

“I'm not a child, Kuro,” Kenma snapped, in lieu of the real answer-- which was a paltry two or three hours, so really, Kuroo was right, but Kenma didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“The pout on your face points to otherwise,” came the dry response. Kuroo stood and tucked the book away-- Kenma was vaguely surprised to note he even shelved it in the right place. The familiar had been paying more attention to Kenma’s setup than he’d thought. “Go to bed.”

Kenma moved to pick it off the shelf again, but Kuroo, with a world-weary sigh, scooped Kenma up in his arms, carrying him over to the bedroll and setting him down there. 

“Don't think I'm above setting up wards to trap you there until you get enough rest, Kenma,” warned the familiar.

The witch pursed his lips, but gave in. Clearly resisting was an exercise in futility, and he wasn't about to waste energy on it.

He was out in seconds.

/////

Kenma apparently needed a moonflower.

He glared down at the grimoire in his hands, particularly at the potion recipe one of his ancestors had scrawled in it. “Of course it's the  _ one  _ variety of flower I can't grow myself,” he complained.

Moonflowers were notoriously difficult to grow-- they were basically sunflowers, but planted so high up and at such a time that when the first bloom unfurled its petals, it first learned to chase the moon, close enough to shine bright as daylight. During the actual day, it was entirely covered from root to blossom to keep it untainted, and on new moon nights, it needed to be attended to with a white flame lantern as a substitute for the lunar glow it was used to seeking.

It was far more work than Kenma could justify for a mere ingredient, especially one so uncommon in use.

Kuroo didn't bother asking what Kenma was muttering about. Instead, he leapt up onto the desk (in feline shape, thankfully) light as a feather, and tilted his head down at the nearly illegible chicken scratch. He squinted at it for a solid minute, and then apparently making it out, meowed, placing his paw on the word ‘moonflower’.  _ Mrow _ .

Kenma raised an eyebrow. “What, Kuro,” he grunted.

_ Mrow _ .

“I don't speak cat,” said the witch flatly, whirling away from the grimoire to see if one of his other books could suggest a substitute.

“I can get one for you, if you’d like. There's a merchant at the market that sells them, fresh and everything,” Kuroo said, shifting into his human form with ease. Kenma’s eyes flicked to the glass window (finally completely repaired a few days ago) to be sure no one had seen the change. There was no one there, of course. “Before you ask, the merchant is quite reliable. He's good at what he does.”

“Which is?” Kenma asked, though he wasn't entirely sure he cared.

Kuroo shrugged. “Gardening. What else?”

The witch considered it. It didn't take him long to decide-- he had nothing to lose, and Kuroo had been fairly reliable until now. “All right, but I’d rather not step foot in the market could I help it.”

“You shouldn't have to. I did offer to get them for you.”

“What will it cost?”

A long moment passed without a word from the familiar. Finally: “That's hard to say. I haven't done much business with Ushiwaka, though I’ve been told he’s fair in his dealings. He also accepts trades-- actually he seems to prefer barter over traditional currencies more often than not.”

Kenma hummed, already scanning his shelves for spares he could trade away. “I could perhaps give you some of my pieces and potions, and you could let him choose.”

“That works.” Kuroo found a small wicker basket and brought it over. Kenma laid some soft stretches of cloth as a cushion, and then carefully laid the meticulously labelled glass jars and bottles inside-- potions for strength and sleep, salves for numbing, smelling salts for calming and aiding memory. He then moved to his work bench and, finding a small pouch, put in his spare jewelry pieces.

As he contemplated a particularly ornate locket, Kuroo came up behind him. “That's lovely. I haven't seen very many of your finished works,” he commented.

Kenma blinked down at it. As far as his pieces went… it was mediocre. “It’s all right,” he mumbled, dropping it into the pouch. A silver bangle and copper pendant followed suit. After a beat of hesitance, so did another bangle, this one of bright gold.

“Your engravings and designs are masterful, it’s a damn sight more than ‘all right’,” Kuroo grumbled, not unkindly.

Kenma flushed, but refused to acknowledge the praise. “Go,” he said. “The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return.”

“As you wish.”

Once the cat was gone, Kenma settled in to prepare everything else that he required for the potion. He had no doubt Kuroo would be able to acquire it-- he had not yet broken his word in all the time he had been with Kenma, and the witch wasn't inclined to think he would start now.

/////

Days later, there was a knock at the door, and Kenma slid aside the wooden panel only to be faced by the kitsune from before in human form.

“Yakkun!” Kuroo exclaimed, shifting forms quicker than Kenma could blink. “You came all this way to visit me? To what do I owe the honor?”

Kenma shoved Kuroo away-- the familiar was far too close for comfort-- simultaneously stepping aside to allow the kitsune entrance. He didn't exactly want an ayakashi in his house, especially one so tied to the fae, but it was that or risk offending him, and that would surely be worse.

Besides, if Kuroo trusted him (and it surely seemed like he did), and Nekomata had as well, it was probably all right.

Yaku wrinkled his nose, scowling at Kuroo as he passed through the doorway. “I did not come here for  _ you _ , fool,” he snapped, dipping his head in a shallow bow of greeting in Kenma’s direction. “Pardon the intrusion, Kozume-kun.”

It was a testament to the kitsune’s power, perhaps, that at his name, Kenma couldn't help but stand a little straighter, body ringing with something unidentifiable, veins buzzing with the same energy. He remembered, suddenly, that he had not yet responded, and though Yaku did not appear to be bothered, he was likely growing impatient. “Ah, welcome…?”

“Yaku,” intoned the kitsune, smiling gently, a stark contrast to the harsh expression he’d tossed Kuroo’s way. Kenma almost wanted to laugh, but refrained from doing so, just in case. He still didn't know this kitsune, after all. “You may call me that, for the meantime-- normally I would give you an alias, but since Nekomata saw fit to reveal it to you… I do not mind you holding a portion of my name.”

Kenma bent in a bow of his own. “It is an honor, and I thank you for it.”

Yaku waved it off, taking another step inward. Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “What, not only do you dismiss me out of hand, but I don't even get a proper greeting? How cruel you are to your old friend, Yakkun,” said the familiar, pouting in mock-sadness. 

Kenma didn't understand how Kuroo could be so casual around someone so potentially dangerous, and thought about warning him against it, but before he could, Kuroo caught his eye. “Yakkun is a close friend of mine and Nekomata’s,” he explained. “He insists he’s a threat to our safety, but he's quite harmless, honestly.”

That earned him a growl from the kitsune, whose lips curled back to reveal his pointed fangs. “Tread lightly, Kuroo,” he warned.

Kuroo only rolled his eyes, and again, Kenma just couldn't comprehend how his familiar could be so  _ dumb _ . This was who he was to entrust his security to?

“He is deserving of caution, certainly, but you need not treat him like he would pounce on you as soon as he was given the opportunity. He is not that type of fox.”

Yaku made another low rumble in his throat, but then sighed, turning to face Kenma. “I should hardly be telling you this, especially when  _ he _ \--” This was accompanied by a glower that could melt steel directed at Kuroo, who only smirked widely-- “is around to hear, but ‘tis true. There is no need to behave around me as if I would snap at you for any petty offense. I outgrew that sort of frivolity a century ago. And for my friends, I avoid alienating them whenever possible-- you seem a good man, Kozume, and I should like to hope I might count you among those people, one day.”

Kenma… did not entirely know what to say to that. Eventually, he settled on a small nod, busying himself with finishing the task he had left undone in order to get the door-- it was nothing but cleaning up the bedroll, really, and it was mostly done. All that was left to do was tuck it into the corner where it belonged, so Kenma did this, pretending not to mind his familiar bickering so… well…  _ familiarly _ with one of the most powerful magic creatures Kenma had ever encountered.

“Yaku-san,” he began, as he stood up finally, hands free and very obviously done with his work (if it could be called that). “What was it you came here for then, if not to visit Kuro?”

Yaku, having just parted his lips to sling a sharp chiding Kuroo’s way, shut his mouth again, chewing over his words, by the looks of it. “The Bookkeeper requested I come and check in on you. He was needed elsewhere, otherwise he would have come to visit himself. As it is…” He shrugged. “I am here in his stead.”

“We’re doing well,” Kenma said, before Yaku could ask. “We had some small differences, but we sorted it out.”

Yaku looked to Kuroo for confirmation and got it in the form of a smile as the familiar leaned back against the wall. “We mostly have a system now. Errands. Signals for both forms, verbal and not.” He paused before adding, “Unofficially, I keep Kenma from staying up too late fiddling with spells and the like.”

Kenma glared. “I'm not a  _ child _ . I’ve told you this before. I am entitled to make my own decisions,” he huffed. He was only pouting a little bit.

The familiar rolled his eyes. “And  _ I’ve  _ told  _ you _ that as your familiar, it's my job to handle your care. That includes your health, Kenma.”

Yaku chuckled, preventing Kenma from making a snide response. “Nekomata made an exceptionally good match with you two, didn't he?” He didn't bother waiting for a response. “Well, I have the answer I came for, so I'll be on my way. I'll be back another time.”

He moved to leave, but paused on the threshold, head cocking back ever so slightly. Neither Kenma nor Kuroo (or so the witch assumed) could see his face, but that didn't seem to matter. “Oh, and Kuroo. The celebration in honor of the new phoenix will be on midsummer’s eve. You are welcome to come-- Kenma, you as well-- but be warned. A night so full of revelry is bound to be wild and unsafe. Should you choose to attend, stick close to one another, and trust no one. Not even me.”

And with that, he stepped out of the doorway. Kenma watched his figure until he turned a corner and was out of sight, wondering.

/////

“What was he talking about?”

“Never you mind,” Kuroo snapped, strangely ill at ease since Yaku’s parting. He’d been restless, shifting forms often and unwilling to settle. It was grating on Kenma’s nerves, and he couldn't help but admit he was worried.

“Kuro,” he chided, narrowing his eyes. It had been a question, one specifically chosen because he knew that was what was bothering him so. It hadn't warranted such a waspish response.

Kuroo sighed, ceasing his pacing and settling into a seat on the floor, face buried in his hands. He sighed. “I'm sorry. It's only…” 

Kenma waited.

“There is a tradition in the magical realm that you may have heard of,” Kuroo began. “When a new phoenix is coming, his birth is celebrated grandly-- any and all creatures come together to revel in its honor, for how can one not rejoice when the ranks of a truly rare and beautiful beast have just been increased?”

Kenma nodded to show he understood, though he had not, in fact, heard of this before. Kuroo continued, “It seldom happens. Even the older beings sometimes go their whole lifetimes without witnessing the birth of one, because phoenixes, with their true claim to immortality, feel no pressure to reproduce as you and I might.”

“And this celebration… there is one approaching?”

“Yes.” Kuroo ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “It is a chance so special, so wonderful… but it is also dangerous. Yaku meant well, I'm sure. It is something no one would willingly miss, for nothing could ever compare to such a gathering, and the sheer power and miracles one could witness there…”

“I want to go,” Kenma said softly, surprising even himself. He reconsidered it for a few seconds and genuinely found himself interested. What might he learn? What might he gain?

But then again, what might he lose?

He’d been wary to enter even the market, and from the sounds of it, the phoenix festival would be far, far worse. It would make the market seem as tame as a petting zoo.

So why did this draw him in, the mere idea of it urging him to go, go,  _ go _ ?

“It wouldn't be safe,” Kuroo warned. “As I'm sure you’ve gathered. Unlike the market, there are fewer rules. You can't have a revelry with too many restrictions, after all. Not a proper one.”

Kenma nodded.

“You told me and Nekomata you wanted me to go in your stead to places far less dangerous for your own safety,” the familiar went on. “I could do the same for this as well. You can trust that I won't forget myself to pleasure, Kenma.”

“It is not that I distrust you,” Kenma cut in, shaking his head to emphasize the point. “You have proven yourself well enough. But if it is as you say… this is not the kind of event I can experience and learn from in proxy, as most of the others are.” He paused again, gathering the words he needed to explain himself. He didn't think he needed to-- Kuroo had an uncanny ability to understand the layers beneath what little Kenma did say, but still, he felt compelled to. “A djinn is a djinn, no matter who sees it and where. But at a celebration such as this? It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a djinn interact with a yuki-onna, or a dragon. There are things to be learned here that will likely never be possible otherwise. And for learning, the more minds we put into it, the more we will emerge with.”

“I cannot sway you then,” Kuroo stated, rather than asking.

Kenma met his gaze and bobbed his head once.

“Then we will go. Take your precautions, make your preparations, even as early as now. And when the time comes, stay close.” His eyes softened. “And you should know that as Yaku says, trust not even him. And should I seem different, more  _ other _ when we are there, especially the later we linger, know that it is only the magic of the air, of the festivities. It is an odd thing, and it brings out the more hidden sides of us who usually don a human form.”

The witch nodded once more.

/////

The celebrations were held out in the open air, under the clearest skies anyone had seen for millenia; they were so devoid of clouds and smoke that some even say new constellations were discovered that day-- though they have since never been seen again. There were no oppressive walls nor ceilings that sent conversation and song echoing back like a hollow memory. Instead, there were wide open plains of grass that twinkled with the fresh dew of the morning, miles upon miles of space to twirl and dance through; in place of chandeliers, there were precious gems and crystals, suspended in mid-air by some strange power, lit from the inside like embers. There was no excess of food or drink, either; there was just enough, so that no one had more than he could comfortably stomach, but neither did anyone go hungry or parched. 

As for the guests… The revelers were all beautiful in their own manner-- some were powerful and intimidating, with fangs that glinted like the daggers, with claws that gleamed in the night in both threat and temptation (to reach out, to touch, to let oneself be cut… there are those, after all, who find pleasure in pain). Yet others were of a classic appeal, their faces like the finest statues, carved more flawless than any mortal could hope to be, their bodies all sinuous grace and languid flexibility. And even that was not the end of it.

Kuroo had certainly warned him, but somehow, even his worst fears had been far off; this was far, far more people (if they could be call that) than Kenma had been prepared to face. Oh, surely he knew they were likely paying him little attention-- minor threat as he was, especially as each guest attempted to show off to the others, he was little use even as entertainment.

There were shifters with their skins and their cloaks, the fae and their tinkling laughter like the sweetest harps and tolling death bells all at once; there were sirens with their crooning, spellbinding voices, and dryads with their vine-woven plaits and apple-red lips. There were dragons, with their scales like jewels and fangs like daggers; there were fauns and satyrs, with their cloven hooves and gleaming horns. Even the gods were present, it seemed-- river kings and mountain emperors in their best finery, heads and necks burdened by intricate, glimmering crowns twice as tall above their shoulders, and somehow still held high.

It was too much to take in for our young Kenma. Every time he thought he had processed everything in his vicinity and assessed the threat they presented as well as how he might counteract it, something wondrous and new whirled into his line of sight, starting the process all over again.

He couldn't help but feel like a mouse cornered by a lion, couldn't help but feel like they were all, every one of them, waiting to devour him whole. He couldn’t help but feel that any second now, he would turn and find himself bleeding, or drained of his free will, or-- or--

“We can turn back, if you’d like,” Kuroo offered quietly, setting a gentle, tentative hand on the small of Kenma’s back. “We can try again another evening; the celebration will likely last a week at least. You have time.”

Kenma swallowed and jerked his head stiffly, and Kuroo took his shoulders and guided him back home.

/////

Two days. That's how long it took for Kenma to feel prepared. Kuroo didn't rush him, didn't bring it up unless Kenma broached the topic first, and when they did discuss it, he willingly offered anything he knew that Kenma wanted to know, down to the smallest detail.

Kenma’s brain felt close to bursting with information, and he felt that there was still a great deal of knowledge left that Kuroo might impart him with, but he knew that any longer…

Well, any longer risked even more powerful creatures making their appearance, as Kuroo had noted that the stronger, more reclusive beings tended to show up later in the celebrations. There was also the magic of the revelry itself, that which lent itself to the attendees and invigorated them, drew them closer to the magic realm to which they belonged-- the one Kuroo had warned Kenma of long before they made their first trip. It got stronger as the nights went on, Kuroo told the witch, and while being bonded would serve as an anchor for him and afford him some protection, if they waited too long, Kenma would not be able to rely on even him.

They had no choice then. It was tonight, or never.

Tonight, Kenma had left some of his fringe loose, restricting his field of vision the way he most often kept it at home. While that meant he had less places to loop protective charms, he figured that either way, they would be of little use-- how could a mortal’s feeble magic ever hope to compare to creatures born of it at the height of their power? Even among his own kind, he wasn't particularly strong…

“What do you want to see, master?” Kuroo asked him, ducking low so that he could be heard over the cacophony. They’d both agreed that Kuroo was not to mention his name. Not here.

Kenma didn't know. He was too busy trying not to lift his head and take in too many sights, lest he be overwhelmed again.

Kuroo began to list things. “There is a table full of food and drink, if you are hungry, or parched,” he said. “The things you will find there are far beyond a mortal chef’s ken-- you cannot take the food home, I don't think, but some of the drinks and potions, you might be able to.”

Kenma considered that. Perhaps later. He shook his head.

“There is a bonfire, and many of the attendees are dancing there. They are exchanging tokens with their partners-- perhaps you could get something?”

Kenma almost agreed… but then remembered. “I have nothing to give,” he mumbled.

Kuroo nodded. “Ah, so you don't. That's all right. You might find something later still.” He paused, scanning the plain and all the festivities again. “There is a lone craftsman, standing at a stall there with trinkets to wear. He doesn't seem to be exacting payment… perhaps we should go take a look.”

The familiar was already guiding Kenma that way, though the witch found he had no protests other than, “I will leave the speaking to you,” which Kuroo acknowledged with a hum. He did not argue.

Kenma’s gaze remained fixed on the grass before him as he stumbled onward after his familiar, whose hand was laced gently through his to prevent their separation. He focused on the warmth of it, on the callouses and slight dryness of the skin. He focused on the weight of his fingers and the lines that marked each joint and knuckle, willing himself to remain calm. He wasn't as exposed as he felt, certainly. He was fairly sure no one had so much as cast them a first glance, let alone a second.

Still, it felt like he stood out too much here-- ironically, because he was plain instead of extraordinary, like every other being in attendance.

They came to a stop soon, and Kenma lifted his gaze only to bend forward in a bow towards the old man who ran the stall. He looked mostly human, other than the ebony feathers sprouting from his arms and talon-like curve and sharpness of his nails. A tengu, perhaps? “Good evening,” Kenma mumbled, alongside Kuroo.

“Ah, you must be Kozume-kun. And the familiar, of course, Kuroo-kun,” muttered the tengu. “Nekomata told me you might be here.” He dipped his head shallowly. “Good evening.”

Kenma startled a bit at his name, but at the mention of Nekomata, calmed somewhat. Nekomata had not yet failed him, and was old and wise enough that Kenma trusted him.

The tengu grinned. “My name is Ukai, I'm a good friend of that old geezer,” he said, and Kuroo sputtered out a laugh at the irreverence of it. Kenma rolled his eyes. That  _ would  _ amuse him. 

“Did you want something? I make these little knick knacks to pass the time, but they end up cluttering my house-- I sometimes have my grandson sell a few at the market, but…” He shrugged. “I don't really need anything more anyway, so giving them away is easier,” said Ukai, clearly content to chatter away without their response or prompting. That was fine. Kenma liked it that way.

The witch looked at the little cart, at the myriad of masks and bangles, the beads and paper cords and kites. “They're beautiful,” Kenma said softly, fingering an elaborate kabuki mask with the face of an oni, it's face painted and hewn so vividly the witch could almost believe it would really move, growl at him perhaps, or bite his fingers off. 

“Thank you,” Ukai answered. “You’re quite the craftsman yourself.”

Kenma blinked at him.

Ukai pointed to the earrings looped through his earlobe. “Those. You made them, didn't you? They have a witch’s touch about them.”

Kenma didn't know what that meant, but he blushed at the compliment and nodded, eyes flitting away to the next mask. “Thank you.” This mask was a calico cat, eyes lined dark and whiskers like the real thing. Even the porcelain was painted to look as soft as real fur.

“Could I have this?” he asked, tapping it gently. Something about it drew him to it, though what specifically, he couldn't say. Maybe it was the fact that behind a mask, he would feel less exposed, and much more ready to explore. Maybe it was because of the almost implausible artistry combined with the simple realism of it, as compared to the more fantastical and free-spirited interpretations of creatures that were certainly here, making merry with everyone else. (Absently, Kenma wondered how many had seen their likeness here, and what their reactions had been). 

At his question, Ukai waved a hand. “Go ahead. I’ve had that for a while now, and it always gets passed over for the fancier ones. I’ve no qualms with you giving it a home.”

Kenma traced a finger over it, then pulled it from its hook. He fitted it over his face, and Ukai stepped around behind him to help knot it securely. Already, Kenma felt he could breathe easier. He was more anonymous this way, so even if someone (or something) did look his way, they wouldn't immediately know who they were looking at.

It was a small comfort, but it was enough.

As for Kuroo, he chose a pair of bangles, wrapped with red twine and with a bell on each that somehow remained quiet, despite all the jostling. Ukai raised his eyebrows and complimented him on a good choice, sliding one onto Kuroo’s wrist, and the other on Kenma’s. “Keep these on and part with them for nothing. They will alert you should the other be in danger-- a priceless thing, and the only protection I can grant you.”

They thanked him, and then they left.

/////

Kenma spent most of the evening observing. He watched magnificent creatures he couldn't name battle for show and for glory, watched them produce magic he couldn't comprehend now, but would later dissect in his memory, layer by layer, to see if he could recreate it. 

The witch, now that he was calmer, could see that for all of its appearance of chaos from the outside, there was a fluidity, an honesty to every movement and spectacle that no staged gesture could ever hope to match. Kenma was realizing now that there was not a single pretense-- everyone had come exactly as they were, and trust me when I say that there is nothing so elegant, so graceful, as a heart and soul being true to themselves, in whatever method of expression suits them best.

Still, Kenma wasn't ready entirely to let his guard down.

Kuroo never pushed him to participate, and he always confirmed with the witch first before he joined in something. Sometimes Kenma allowed him. Sometimes, Kenma asked him to stay, to keep him company-- Kuroo didn't complain then either, standing sentry beside him and patiently answering questions or pointing things out. Kenma took it all in in silence, with maybe the occasional hum of acknowledgement.

There was so much to drink in-- fantastical sights and spectacular sensations, tastes that mingled on Kenma’s tongue in ways that shouldn't have worked but did, music that wrapped around his skin and seeped into his muscles and made him feel like he could dance with just as much grace as the finest creatures here if only he tried… he didn't, of course, but the sentiment was more than he usually had, so he supposed it counted.

No one ever cast them a second glance, if they even cast them a first… or so Kenma thought.

It was as they were leaving-- the witch too tired and mind too overloaded to process much more, the familiar quickly growing more restless and more susceptible to the strange power of the revelry-- that a man sidled up to Kuroo’s other side, a sweet smile on his face. “Leaving so soon? I was hoping to have a dance with you yet,” he said, batting his lashes.

He smelled of salt and the sea. His hair glinted ashy gold in the light of the moon. And his voice… there was something about his voice--

Whatever it was, it seemed to have stunned Kuroo, for the familiar was silent for a long moment. Kenma squeezed his hand tightly.  _ Come on _ . “I…” he managed at length, shaking his head as if to clear it that way, and blinking his eyes rapidly as if trying to stay awake. “I apologize. I have to go.”

“Oh come now,” crooned the man. “It wouldn't be long. Just one dance?” There was almost a melody to the words, a lilt to the tone of his voice like he meant to sing them--

And that was how Kenma knew. He was a siren. Hackles raised, Kenma gripped Kuroo’s fingers tighter in warning, but it didn't seem to have any effect. The familiar only looked dazed again, blinking slow and uncertain as he wavered. 

“Kuro,” he bit out, when even as Kuroo’s fingers turned white in Kenma’s own, he still did not turn away. The siren’s assessing gaze flicked once over to Kenma. 

The siren’s gaze flicked away. Kenma had been dismissed as not even a threat.

For the first time in his life, Kenma found that it irked him. “Kuro,” he said again. “We’re going.”

“I…”

“Is that so?” asked the siren, stepping even closer to Kuroo, so that his chest-- mostly exposed by his loosely bound yukata-- was pressed against the length of Kuroo’s arm. “You don't think you're keeping your kitty too cooped up?” This was directed at Kenma, teeth bared in a barely polite smile.

“No,” snapped the witch, “I am not. Release him.”

The siren hummed, as if in consideration. “I would… but he seems quite happy to be in my hands.” He smirked at Kuroo, resting one hand gently against the familiar’s face and tilting it to face him. “Aren't you?”

He didn't give Kuroo time to answer, surging forward to kiss him soundly on the mouth.

Kenma hoped (as bleak as the odds were) that Kuroo might snap out of it, might shove the siren back and return to himself so that they could go home.

Instead…

The familiar’s hand slipped out of Kenma’s grip.

And came to rest on the siren’s waist, as if to keep him there.

Kenma sighed. There was no helping it. He could hardly go against a siren. He would be able to resist even less than Kuroo had been. Waiting for Kuroo to come to his senses was even more dangerous than outright confronting the siren; who knew what might take an interest in him?

His only option was to make haste returning home, and await Kuroo there.

“ _ Kuroo _ ,” he tried, just once more, just in case. The siren’s eyes flashed open, pinned him in their sight. The creature set a graceful hand against Kuroo’s shoulder and pulled him closer. A claim.

The witch narrowed his golden eyes, but he turned away and started a brisk pace towards the exit-- or at least, where he thought it was. 

He realized with a chill that he had been so absorbed in scanning for threats upon entry that he hadn't noted the exact location of the entrance.

His head snapped up, searching-- but Kuroo had been dragged off somewhere, the spot where he’d been standing with the siren empty. Ukai’s stall had long since disappeared. Kenma had no one to turn to, and he was far too anxious, too frazzled and upset to possibly concentrate long enough to sense it himself. His breaths were starting to become short and shallow, whole body trembling at the thought of maybe being trapped here, on his own with no defenses--

“If you're looking for the doorway,” said a soft voice by his ear. “You’ll find it a few feet to the left.”

Kenma whirled to face the newcomer. Too fast, it seemed, because he tripped over his own feet and started to fall.

The girl caught him, hand cool and smooth against his own. She tugged him back into balance. She smiled softly. “Are you all right?”

He blinked at her, stubbornly refusing to answer. He didn't know yet  _ what _ she was, but… she certainly  _ looked  _ human. Shorter than he by a good three inches, with raven hair that fell in soft ringlets pinned on either side of her head and adorned with seastars. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue, almost navy, naturally hooded and fringed by long lashes. The moue of her lips looked red as heart’s blood, though there didn't seem to be any paint on it.

“Must you leave so soon, though?” she went on, heedless of his wariness, voice melodic. “Surely you can stay a little longer. The night is young yet.”

Kenma knew, vaguely, that he shouldn't listen. She was not as innocent or harmless as she seemed, of course, and he didn't need to know what she was, exactly, to know that. But… she was smiling at him, soft and gentle, and her hands felt cool against his, thumbs rubbing soothing circles across the backs of his palms... and she was right, after all. It was still fairly early-- surely whatever came, Kenma could defend himself against it long enough to make an escape or find Kuroo.

And the bracelet he wore remained silent, too. Ukai hadn't explicitly explained the spell on them, but Kenma was intelligent enough to put it together-- the bells would ring if one of the wearers fell into danger, and since his was not ringing now…

“Won't you come with me, sweet mortal?” sang the girl, tugging Kenma closer.

Kenma let himself be led.

/////

Now, now, before you start muttering about Kenma’s sudden loss of intellect, let me tell you this. As you may have realized, the girl was a siren too. Her voice was powerful on its own, but when set to music, its power was unrivalled by any mortal workings (there was one case, though, that was an exception… but that is another tale). And so it slipped into Kenma’s mind and heart, insidious, and tainted all it touched-- made it so Kenma could not hope to resist, through no fault of his own.

The girl brought Kenma to a small grove of trees, away from the main revelry-- which suited the witch just fine. She hummed the whole way, and sometimes troubled herself to sing snatches of lyrics in a language Kenma didn't know.

When they got there, she stepped close to Kenma, close enough that their geta touched. “Tell me your name, darling,” she murmured, cupping his cheek in one hand.

“Kozume,” he replied, voice low lest another being hear him other than her.

“Kozume…” She smiled. “It suits you,” she said, and Kenma felt something sweet and warm and lovely bubble in his chest at the praise, wrapped in music by her beautiful voice. “Will you do what I ask, Kozume? It would make me very happy if you did.”

And Kenma… what could Kenma do but nod? The promise of her happiness, at more praise, perhaps, wormed its way into Kenma’s mind and held tight. 

She asked him to do many things, humming in the interim as he obeyed. She had him conjure apparitions and bend elements to his will. She had him set wards only to undo them again. He was hapless in her thrall, and though some part of him knew that, usually, he would be suspicious, or lazy, or stubborn, now, he couldn't find it in himself to be any of those things. 

He obeyed each and every instruction, until finally, she seemed satisfied. “You seem quite capable a caster, Kozume-san. Almost as good as I am.” she told him, raking gentle fingers through his hair. “Take off your mask for me.”

Kenma blinked, but after a beat of hesitation (why he hesitated at all, Kenma didn't know), he did so, reaching behind him for the knot and loosing it.

She took the mask in her hands and pulled it off, revealing his face. “Ah, I was right,” she mused. “You have such pretty golden eyes, Kozume-san.” Her mouth stretched into a thin line. “A lot like another mortal I’ve met before.”

She dropped the mask carelessly, and though it didn't shatter, it did crack, a fracture branching out from the bottom right towards the corners of the eye, marring the beautiful cat like a scar. Kenma barely had a moment to grieve its loss, though, because she was giggling, laugh like the burble of a stream on a summer day, calming and cool, and the witch was so entranced by it that all other thought stopped.

That was a first. His head almost felt empty, without the constant echoing worries and observations.

He should feel afraid. Instead, it felt… pleasant. Like he could breathe for once.

Or maybe it was more accurate to say he didn't feel a need to-- like he was drowning, falling through the water, and instead of gasping for breath, he could simply appreciate the way the moonlight flirted with the waves.

“Ah, maybe you're related to him? Gold is not a common eye color, among you humans,” she sang, tilting his head this way and that, examining him. “Then again, maybe not. Not that I care.”

“Who…” Kenma managed, the words like gravel in his throat, the weight of them like dragging an anvil out of the ocean. All he wanted was to keep listening to her talk, sing… to have her voice wash over him. He didn't want to interrupt. He didn't want to think too hard about what she was saying.

But also, he did. He had to. He didn't know why, but it felt important.

“Who was he? I don't know,” she said easily, shrugging. Her shoulders rose and fell with all the grace of a wave. “But somehow he bewitched my brother, the strongest and most beautiful of all of us-- and it made him  _ weak _ .” 

Kenma blinked rapidly, barely resisting the urge to recoil. She was so angry…

She took a deep breath and released it, relaxing once again-- the wrinkle smoothed from her brow, the hardness vanished from her features… she was smiling again, and Kenma dared to breathe himself. “You know, Kozume-san…” she said, stepping away from him and towards his mask, as if she meant to retrieve it. “I’ve always wanted to be like him. My brother, I mean. But now… now I can be better. And all I have to do is kill you, like he couldn't.”

Kenma’s heart stilled in his chest. Kill him?

He should leave--  _ now _ . Why couldn't he? Why did it feel like trying to force his body through sap, gooey and stifling and unpleasant? Why did he feel like he wanted to stay, even with death hanging over him, like maybe she might somehow change her mind any moment?

And true, she might. Most magical creatures were flippant and fickle. They had the time to waste, the resilience to weather the consequence, the power to fuel their disdain for such human concepts as commitment and value for life. But it would be pure folly to rely on such benevolence, especially when she seemed so bitter.

He knew that. He knew that, and yet--

He still waited, stood stock still as she lifted one dainty foot and stomped it down onto the mask, and it cleaved nearly perfectly along the crack, leaving two halves with jagged ends.

All common sense told him to run, and for a minute, he thought he just might finally follow through, as she silently bent to finally pick up the fragments of Ukai’s gift to him. He took one step. Another. He was about to bolt--

She began to sing. This song he could understand-- it was in Japanese, washing over him like a gentle tide at the edge of the shore.

_ Come stay with me _ , she sang.  _ Come stay, just a little longer. _

And suddenly he found that he wanted to. There was something… wrong, with this. But Kenma couldn't recall-- what… why had he so wanted to leave?

She wouldn't hurt him, he thought, even as she slipped the sharper of the porcelain pieces into his hand.

He would linger only a while. Only a short while. She was smiling so lovely, so gently… he could bask in it just a little longer, couldn't he?

She was speaking, he thought. Her voice continued to rise and fall in the melody she’d been crooning, the words half-sung. So mesmerized was Kenma by the music of it, by the tingling energy creeping through his veins like honey, sticky and warm and golden, that he didn't think too hard about anything she was asking him to do.

At her behest, he raised the hand she’d pressed the porcelain into, where it pressed into his skin just short of breaking it from his tight grasp on it. He held it up to about the level of his neck.

He didn't understand why he was so tense. He didn't feel like he should be.

But he was.

He twisted the fragment in his grip so that the sharp point faced him. He pulled his arm back--

And the bangle jingled, just once, a soft, barely audible ring. (Part of him was blaring out an alarm, was urging him to  _ go go go _ , but he didn't know why, didn't want to.)

“Go on, Kozume-san. It’ll be quick. Easy,” she coaxed, in her kind, soothing voice.

And she wasn't wrong. He just had to--

Kenma felt a sharp pain in his ankle, then. He hissed, momentarily forgetting the porcelain where it sat in his palm, attention instead on the bleeding bite wound just above the knob of his ankle bone. 

“Kuro, what the--” he began, as the cat blinked soundlessly up at him. Kuroo licked the wound clean in apology and then stepped in front of him, shifting as he went.

“Step away from him, siren wench. There is a covenant in this place-- an unspoken truce,” snapped the familiar, glaring down at the girl-- the siren.

And ah. The pieces slid into place; no wonder then, that Kenma had been so addled, so impossibly eager to please her. No wonder resisting had seemed so futile.

Cold fear seeped into his veins as the facts sunk in, the mask fragment slipping from his fingers. 

She had almost convinced him to kill himself. To stab his own neck.

He had almost  _ died _ .

Kuroo was still locked in some sort of staredown with the siren girl-- his hair was mussed, lips red and swollen and slick, and his kimono was laughably unruly, all out of place and sitting on him wrong. But for all that, he looked more intimidating than Kenma had ever seen him, true anger burning in his irises, lining every muscle in his body.

The siren girl only smiled. “Ah, so there is. But that covenant was made for us magical folk, wasn't it?” she murmured, in her velvet voice. Her lashes fanned against her cheeks like palm fronds over a sunset sky, and her smile was as sly as a crescent moon preparing to rule the horizon for yet another night. “And even if he can do a few party tricks, he’s just a mortal.”

Her nose wrinkled. “But then, I suppose you're just as worthless,” she sneered. “ _ Familiars. _ Imagine that-- an entire species whose only purpose is to serve such fragile things as humans. Why you count as magical is beyond me.”

“ _ Leave _ . I shan’t say it again.” Kuroo narrowed his eyes. “And trust me, in a fight, you would not win. I may not be able to resist your spell on my own… but for my master, the bond that ties me to him will grant me the strength.”

For a moment, it seemed like the siren would stay, that Kenma would have to stand there as they battled and hope that nothing else noticed the commotion-- or himself.

But after a few more moments of tense silence, the siren girl turned and left. Kenma let out a shaky sigh, falling to his knees like a puppet with its strings severed, as if she had taken with her all the strength of his bones. He had almost died.

_ He had almost died _ .

“Hey. Hey now,” Kuroo murmured, bending down to be at eye level with him. “It’s okay. I'm sorry, I should have been paying more attention to the beings around us. If I hadn't been dragged from your side…”

Kenma shook his head. “No. It was… it was beyond your control.”

Kuroo watched him for a moment. “Breathe with me, all right?” he said. “In…”

Kenma sucked in a shaky breath until it felt like his lungs could hold no more.

“Out…”

The witch blew it out in sync with Kuroo, whose hand had settled warm and solid against the small of his back, rubbing gentle circles into it.

“I'm better now, thank you,” Kenma mumbled, and Kuroo obediently stepped away. They remained silent for a long while.

Finally, Kenma said, “Let’s go home.”

So they did.

/////

“These don't ring, Kenma,” Kuroo said, watching over the witch’s shoulder as he affixed the bells from Ukai’s bangles to the familiar’s collar. 

Kenma made a soft, disgruntled noise as the distraction caused him to twist the wire farther than he meant to. “I know, Kuro,” he answered, adjusting it with a click of his tongue. “But they saved my life. I can't simply toss them out.”

The witch finished, and without prompting, Kuroo shifted forms and allowed Kenma to clasp it around his neck to check it's slack and comfort. He stretched in it, walked in it, tugged at it with his teeth and paws-- and it stayed. Kenma nodded in satisfaction and loosed it.

Kuroo shifted back. “Technically,” he said. “ _ I  _ saved your life by coming to your aid. And also by picking these out in the first place.”

“You did.” Kenma met his gaze, and did not shrink away for once. “Thank you.” He smiled.

The familiar blinked and then blinked again, and then he sputtered, face flushing a rather rich shade of red. He glanced away. “Why-- what-- you can't just spring that on me!” 

“I did not ‘spring it on you’,” Kenma pointed out, expression flat once again. “And anyway, you were practically asking for it.”

“I was not!”

“You were.”

“Not at all!”

“You  _ were. _ ” Kenma tucked the bangles themselves away in a small drawer with some other odds and ends. “I don't mind, though. You deserve the thanks.”

Kuroo seemed ready to start protesting again, but the he sighed and plopped down onto the floor instead. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, and Kenma wondered, briefly, how his fingers never got snarled in the tangles. “You know, I was only doing my job. And if I had done it from the start, your life wouldn't have been in danger.”

Kenma shrugged. “Perhaps. But how things played out were still not entirely your fault, Kuro. You did what you could. You were there when it mattered. That is enough.”

The familiar hummed. “I suppose it is.”

/////

The village soon learned to recognize Kuro, the witch’s cat. They treated him as fondly and respectfully as they did the witch himself; they trusted him with their messages, gifts, and payments without a second thought, and when he passed through town on an errand, they were always quick to help him find his way to wherever he needed to go. Sometimes, they snuck him bits of fish-- they learned very quickly that grilled mackerel was his favorite, and sent him purring up a storm.

Other times, they would puzzle at the bells that hung from his collar and yet never rang, no matter how Kuro moved. Indeed, Kuro would leap and run and twist this way and that, and though the bells bounced on his collar and sometimes flew off (to be picked up immediately by the nearest villager and held out in an open palm), they never made a sound. Not even once. No amount of tinkering or observing by the townsfolk could reveal anything-- even the handiest of them all would always say that there was no reason the bells should not chime-- they weren't broken, nor incomplete.

They decided that it must have been magic-- what else could it be? Still… it was in odd magic, to prevent a thing from fulfilling its purpose, even if that purpose was so menial as making noise.

Years passed. Soon, it was only the children who still wondered at it. They saw his bell and asked, “Why doesn't it ring?” 

They would ask it in a whisper, wide eyes staring at the gold little balls bouncing at the front of Kuroo’s throat, silent as a thief in the late hours of the night.

“For luck, for luck,” the old folk would say, and nothing more

One of them, an old merchant woman by the name of Yoshikawa, would quietly add, “I only ever heard them ring once, at a time when our witch almost lost his life to a fire. I didn't know it at the time, of course. I only knew that they jingled, fainter, almost, than even the sound of my own breath, and, as if spooked by the noise, Kuro was off-- I’d barely registered the fact that they’d actually rung like they were meant to and he was already gone.” She would laugh, voice still soft, and lean back in her seat. “Those bells… as long as they don't ring, it means Kozume-kun is safe. And if he is safe, so are we.”

/////

So you see, dear reader, this is why I find black cats a good omen, rather than bad. I like to believe that as long as they are there, out in the open, then we, too, can go about our business instead of hiding.

I look at them, and I see Kuroo, Kenma’s familiar, dutiful and watchful, protective and kind. I think to myself that any black cat could be him, or someone like him. That they are only looking out for us humans in the way they know how.

And if I ever see one with bells that don't ring… well, I know that it's okay to linger.

**Author's Note:**

> If youre an atiny, or just want talk, find me on twitter @withusangie (for my writing and curiouscat!) or @theauthorish for rts of whatever i find interesting.


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